


Sharp Tongue, Blunt Words

by Steals_Thyme (Liodain)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Consent Issues, Internalized Homophobia, Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Roche, Rimming, Self-Loathing, Sexual Repression, Shame, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liodain/pseuds/Steals_Thyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kinkmeme prompt. Rorschach makes a move on Dan, and for once Dan doesn't entirely appreciate it. Basically, this is not the straightforward rimming fic that anon asked for. Sorry, anon :(</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Tongue, Blunt Words

Daniel is bleeding. It's a dark stain unfolding like a flower, blooming across his inner thigh and welling into beads on the spandex. The ripped edges of the fabric are stiffening where the blood has dried, and Rorschach finds his eyes repeatedly drawn there, to the pale slash of skin that slips in and out of view as Daniel moves.

It's not a battle wound. With tired inevitability, Daniel has caught himself on razor wire climbing over a back-alley wall.

It's not serious, of course, otherwise Daniel would have bled out an hour ago while he was curled over his leg and making tasteless jokes about almost castrating himself. It's also nowhere close to the worst injury he's suffered, but it still makes his gait awkward when he runs, and a pained hiss slip between his teeth whenever he crouches down.

Rorschach feels a vague twinge of sympathy (knows how soft and sensitive the skin is there, remembers the phantom burn of a cigarette), but pushes it aside in favor of annoyance.

"Enough," he says, when Daniel halts yet again to pull off his gauntlet and probe at the wound.

Daniel groans, an awful, low noise that makes Rorschach inexplicably ashamed of himself. "Damn right I've had enough," he says. "God, this is irritating. Stings like hell and it won't stop bleeding."

"Surgical glue?"

Daniel's mouth is a thin line. "You used the last of it, remember?"

Rorschach does remember. Louis "Bigmouth" Lucchese had failed to live up to his name, so Rorschach had ensured that he wouldn't be talking to anyone at all for a while.

"You have a suture kit in your belt."

Daniel looks around at the trash-strewn alleyway, judging its proximity to the busy avenue. "It's not that bad," he says, and then flinches when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

Rorschach wonders how Daniel ever got by without him. He stifles a sigh. "I have a bolthole two blocks over," he says. "Think you can make it that far, walking wounded?"

"Don't be patronizing," Daniel says. "It suits you too much. Yeah, okay. Let's do this quick."

-

"Look, the angle is no good. You're going to have to do it," Daniel says, sitting on the edge of a pile of wooden pallets, one leg hitched up. He holds out the needle and tongs, and Rorschach's chest tightens incrementally. He wishes Daniel would stop insisting. He sounds more desperate and more pathetic with each time he asks.

The injury is worse than Rorschach had realized; it slices deeply into the seam where Daniel's leg meets his groin, and because things weren't already bad enough, Daniel had to strip naked from the waist down to clean it. The air is close and smells of rubbing alcohol, sharp over a miasma of sweat, musk and blood. Rorschach has eaten things that smelled worse, but made him want to gag far less.

It would be too much to heap more humiliation on this by vomiting for no apparent reason, so he swallows and swallows and hopes his mouth will stop watering soon.

This has not been a good night, not by a long shot.

The wound is a disgusting sliver of red. It gapes open amid curls of dark hair when Daniel spreads his legs, allowing Rorschach more room to work. He has the good grace to be embarrassed even though he's trying to maintain a casual veneer, half-smiling like this is a commonplace occurrence.

Rorschach doesn't know where to look.

He kneels, braces one bare hand just above Daniel's knee and tries not to think about his face being inches away from his penis.

And now, needle hovering, _all_ he can think is that his face is inches away from Daniel's penis. He hates that his mask allows him stare openly.

It lies flaccid between Daniel's lower belly and his hand; he is simply holding it out of the way, but the practicality doesn't make it any less obscene. The head is guarded, obscured by Daniel's palm, clearly marking it as forbidden.

Rorschach wonders what exactly is wrong with him, that he would think of it like that.

He stops wondering almost immediately, and bites at the inside of his lower lip until his saliva tastes like copper.

Daniel makes a noise, shifts his hips forward. Dark hair trails into clammy shadow and draws Rorschach' eyes to Daniel's nether region. "You actually going to do anything down there?" Daniel says.

Rorschach's hands shake. He places the needle and suture tongs on the floor, then his fedora, and that buys him scant few seconds before he has to acknowledge that yes, he is going to do something down here. Something vile, to chase away the thoughts that squirm through his brain like maggots.

He nudges his nose under Daniel's scrotum and presses his mouth against his anus, pushes his tongue against latex and tries to work it into him. It's disgusting, just like these urges are disgusting, but he has never been afraid of fighting fire with fire.

Daniel jerks, says, "Oh my god, _what_ —" and yelps, spasming as Rorschach slides his tongue over his perineum and digs his fingers against the edge of Daniel's wound. It's warm and slippery and revolting beneath his fingertips.

"Jesus _fuck_ , Rorschach!" Daniel says, and his voice is pitched high either in pain or surprise, Rorschach can't tell which. Daniel grabs at Rorschach's shoulders with both hands. His penis twitches, curves away from his stomach as it engorges.

Rorschach has suspected Daniel's proclivities were deviant, but he hadn't realized to what extent. He feels both disillusioned and rewarded. The combination does nothing for his queasiness, nor for the heat knifing his gut.

He rocks back onto his heels, shuddering. He fights the compulsion to peel off his mask, get the filthy thing away from his skin. "Pervert," he growls.

" _What_ ," Daniel says, mouth slack. "You just—you—without even asking? And _I'm_ a pervert?" He laughs. It sounds forced, devoid of any humor.

That brings Rorschach up short, and a whole different kind of horror descends. (He feels the phantom burn of a cigarette, and uninvited hands moving over him.)

"Hey, look," Daniel says. His face is ashen, voice shaky. "Guilty as charged, okay, but—oh, hell." He makes an exasperated sound and tugs his goggles around his neck, pulls back the cowl to rub at his forehead. His hair is damp and sweaty. "That was a fucked up thing to do."

Rorschach nods, makes a noise through sealed lips. If he opens his mouth, he can blame Daniel, but if he opens his mouth, all his shame will pour out.

He keeps his mouth shut.

Daniel moves jerkily, covering himself. He strains against his shorts when he pulls them on, an ugly lump that ruins the line of his uniform. Rorschach looks away.

"C'mon," Daniel says. His voice holds only a fraction of its usual camaraderie. "I think—I think we need to talk about this."

-

Rorschach is quite sure he doesn't want to talk about it—he knows he went wrong, and sees no point in discussing it further—but he finds himself in Daniel's kitchen, regardless. He politely declines a seat and stands near the basement door.

"Okay," Daniel says for about the fourth time, and wipes his palms on his thighs. "Okay."

Rorschach wonders if 'we need to talk' is actually code for something. The inflection was ominous, and so far there isn't any talking being done. It's proving to be an effective method of torture.

Daniel keeps looking at him, but is not attempting to maintain eye contact. Rorschach can't shake the idea that it's because his mask is dirty, visibly soiled by his degenerate act. He can easily believe that the strange expression on Daniel's face is repulsion. Whatever the look is, it nauseates him.

Maybe this has irreparably damaged their partnership. The thought bothers him in more ways than it should.

"Okay, so what was that about," Daniel says, finally. His voice wavers as though he is embarrassed.

Rorschach is not inclined to dwell on his sick compulsions, much less explain them to anybody else. He shrugs.

Daniel looks at him. "What," he says, and shrugs back, copycatting. "What's—" Another shrug, exaggerated and aggressive. "—what is that? You don't know?"

Daniel's forehead is shiny; he's sweating. Rorschach recognizes his expression now (she would look like that sometimes, perched on the edge of the bed while the man collected his hat and coat).

He realizes that he's waiting to be clipped on the back of the head. His ears burn.

He wants to be angry, and not disgraced. It would be easy to claim that Daniel had encouraged him, parted his legs in lewd invitation, had become aroused, but it's hard to summon the contempt to say as much while he's sitting there, looking violated.

"Is it because you, ah—" Daniel fidgets with the sleeve of his uniform, rubbing the fabric wrinkled in the crook of his elbow. "You're attracted to me?"

"No," Rorschach says, and to his annoyance, he sounds alarmed. He says it again, more decisively. It would be disingenuous to couch his actions in something like an emotional connection. Rorschach has no interest in being attracted to Daniel, and it's unacceptable to let him believe otherwise.

"Huh," Daniel says. He is starting to look less wounded and more appraising, and it makes Rorschach feel like he's been caught in a lie.

A thought occurs. It's not a reassuring one, but it's suitably derailing.

"But you are," Rorschach says. "To me."

Daniel says nothing, just opens his mouth and shuts it again, presses his lips together.

Rorschach feels vindicated. It's an unpleasant sensation, curling in his gut. "Reacted. Physically," he says, and it's easy to spit the words. "Enjoyed it."

"Oh, Jesus, are you listening to yourself?" Daniel stands, limps a step towards Rorschach, and another. "That doesn't make it _okay_. Stop trying to make this my goddamn fault, you callous _bastard_ , how—why are you—" He pushes the back of his hand against his mouth, screws his eyes shut.

Rorschach can't tell if Daniel is inarticulate with fury or on the verge of breaking down. Either way, it makes the persistent gnaw of his shame that little bit keener. He has the pressing need to leave, but Daniel is resting his shoulder against the basement door.

"I've wanted you for so long." Daniel's earnestness is almost unbearable, and Rorschach fervently wishes he would keep his emotions on a tighter leash. He is thankful that Daniel's eyes are still closed, even if he knows it's because Daniel can't bear to look at him. "So long, and you—why did you have to—oh god damn, Rorschach. I would have said yes, if you'd _asked_."

"I couldn't," Rorschach says, gruff and snappish. It finally dawns on him how untenable his position is, how breathtaking his transgression. There's pressure pushing up through his chest and throat, building behind his eyes.

Daniel shakes his head, squeezes his own eyes shut. He sounds weary when he speaks. "I don't understand, Rorschach. I don't know how I'm supposed to, if you won't talk to me." A pause, and then, muttered, "What am I saying, you never do, why would you start now."

He has never felt that he owes Daniel explanations, or apologies. He has never been good at either. This time though, he knows Daniel deserves more than the thin "sorry" that he strains out. When Daniel leans away from the door and sighs heavily, he welcomes deliverance with shameful relief.

"Rorschach." Daniel calls to him from the top of the basement stairs. Rorschach halts in the mouth of the tunnel, turns back to look at him, but he has nothing else to say.

-

Dan rests his forehead against the bathroom tile and lets the shower beat down on his shoulders and back. He can feel the heartbeat-pulse of his injury as water trickles over it and sets his whole thigh aching, throbbing and reminding him. He's been hard off and on since Rorschach left, and he's hard again now, but he doesn't know if he wants to do anything about it.

God damn it to hell, what a stupid mess.

He keeps replaying their conversation over in his head and trying different responses, different body language, working out forks of extrapolation that ground themselves in his candid admission time and again, like it's a lightning rod. It was never going to be a good way to get an explanation out of his partner, but he can't have not said it. He's glad he did, relieved to finally get it out there.

But every time, Rorschach has only the barest apology, a non-answer.

 _I couldn't_. What the hell is that.

By the time Dan has toweled off, he's decided that it doesn't matter: if he couldn't ask, then he shouldn't have acted. Simple as that, and Rorschach knows it, too. Dan is well aware that his partner is fuzzy on the concept of other people's personal boundaries—if the food missing from his larder and the rearranged bathroom cabinet don't ring enough alarm bells, the grubby fingerprints on his bedroom door should be a giant flashing neon goddamn sign—Dan just didn't realize things had gotten quite this serious.

It's kind of reassuring to be a little angry, now that he's feeling less shaken up.

And now that he's a little angry, he can feel beautifully indignant about Rorschach's assertion that he's not attracted to him. The vitriolic rants on deviancy and homosexuality have taken on a decidedly different hue now, and Dan finds himself grinning mirthlessly. Trust him to fall for a viciously repressed, self-loathing, hypocritical ass of a guy.

Couldn't. Of course he couldn't.

Dan sighs. He doubts that is going to change anytime soon.

Or maybe Rorschach will surprise him; god knows that's his specialty. Maybe knowing how Dan feels will be enough impetus for him to face up to himself and own his desires. Dan might not get an explanation for his behavior—he suspects that's going to be more than complicated—but maybe he'll get an apology.

Dan leaves his towel in a damp heap, and sits on the edge of the bed. He idly rubs himself with the heel of his hand.

Maybe he'll come back tonight and slink up the stairs. He'll take off his hat and stand humbly at the threshold to Dan's bedroom and ask to come in. He will ask.

Dan's caresses become firmer and he lies back, legs spread.

Damn it all, Dan will make him ask.

-

Rorschach hesitates, fingers curled under the seam of his mask. It almost feels safe, this transition; a null place where everything becomes pale and makes him nobody. A brief series of moments where he can believe that everything is happening to someone else.

He slides his hands between the latex and his face, the heels of his palms rasping over his unshaven jaw. His hands flatten to his cheeks, over his eyes and over his mouth, and a perverse impulse makes him dart out his tongue, drag it against the salt-sweat of his skin.

The illusion of safety shatters.

It's like turning over a rock; thoughts spill out, pallid and writhing. He chokes down a disgusted noise and rips off the mask, tosses it into the box with the rest of his uniform. He wants to retch, get it over with and purge himself of this constant nausea. He wants to feel better.

His mouth waters. He swallows, and swallows.

-

Kovacs lies supine and sleepless, eyes tracing the spiderweb cracks in the ceiling. He has to face Daniel or risk estrangement. He has to do right by his partner. Thinking about apologizing to Daniel—how he could apologize—makes him ache, physically, so he traps himself, squeezes his thighs together until it hurts.

It helps as much as it ever does. He rolls onto his side.

He has to face Daniel and explain, but when he tries to formulate what he will say, he sounds appalling. He mentally edits, manipulates the events until they sound acceptable, and finds he is still blaming Daniel for everything.

He is appalling. It shouldn't feel like such a revelation.

Kovacs reaches between his legs and closes his hand around the base of his penis, squeezes hard. He is appalling, and he will tell Daniel everything, and Daniel will see how mistaken he is to want him, how foolish it is to want Rorschach.

He pulls and twists with his rough, dry hands and stops thinking of what Daniel had said, and instead focuses on how he had said it.

He will apologize to Daniel for taking advantage, for being no better than the filth they scrape off the streets. Daniel will sit before him and demand that he prostrate himself, and Rorschach will. He'll spread his legs and demand that Rorschach ask to dirty himself, and Rorschach will, he will ask. Then Daniel will let him, will open himself and allow Rorschach to debase himself.

He'll place a hand on his head, and forgive him.

He will twist his fingers in his hair and punish him.

Kovacs feels his breath shorten and he shudders, rides out his sickly impulses with gritted teeth before sinking down into the welcoming misery of sleep.

-

It's early evening. Kovacs keeps a safe distance as he follows Daniel down 40th, moving against the flow of pedestrians, just another rough and weary New York face.

He watches Daniel enter a diner on the other side of the street. He keeps walking until he is opposite, then casually pauses in the shadow of a newsstand and pretends to tie his shoelaces. He can't see Daniel in any of the booths close to the windows; he must be sitting deeper inside, obscured by passing commuters on the street and other customers in the diner and the flitting sky-gray reflections in the glass.

Kovacs is aware, in a half-formed way, that this kind of surveillance is not appropriate and it may upset his partner if he is found out.

Thus, he will ensure that he is not discovered.

That imperative is at odds with an insistent urge to follow Daniel into the diner, a mindless, suicidal impulse like wanting to fling himself from a rooftop.

He could slide into the seat opposite and wait to see if Daniel would recognize him. Rorschach thinks that he would, because for all his faults, Daniel is perceptive.

It would take a moment, perhaps. Daniel's brow would wrinkle and his lips would part slightly, curbing words that he is too soft to say even to an interloping stranger, but then he would realize. He'd stare open-mouthed, then greet Kovacs casually, probably flattering himself that he covered his surprise well. He is always easy to read, his face like an open book without his uniform to shield him. It makes him seem mild and foolish. It's a good disguise.

It will make it easy for Kovacs to meet his eyes without flinching.

He catches himself with a hand on the diner's door, hot palm leaving its own mark on the smudged glass. He gives himself a mental shake, sheds the trite fantasy and scuffs it underfoot as he turns.

Dusk is coming.

-

He changes quickly at first, pinstripes and gloves and trench, but slowing as he comes to his mask. He holds in both hands while he tries to pin down the disquieting sensation that ripples up his spine.

In the interstitial moments where he stretches the fabric over his head, he realizes that the feeling is anticipation.

-

The closer he gets to the Owl's Nest, the more it feels like trepidation.

More so when he finds the lights out and no sign of Daniel, nor of Nite Owl. Increasingly irrational scenarios flash through his mind, shearing his nerves with their keen edges—Rorschach has alienated Nite Owl and so he has decided to patrol alone, or to find another partner elsewhere, or maybe he has decided to _quit_ —but as he approaches the basement steps, he sees the door is ajar in customary welcome and he hears the rattle of dishes in the sink.

He checks his watch and finds that he is earlier than usual. He could leave and come back later, when Daniel has already changed and is ready to patrol.

Or he could choose not to be so craven.

Under the mask, he draws his mouth into a determined line. He pushes the basement door open, and waits. Daniel turns at the creak of the hinges—he never oils them, and Rorschach would never suggest that he should—dishcloth in one hand and dinner plate in the other.

"Come in," he says, and places the plate on the drain board.

Rorschach nods, willing to pretend he had been waiting in the doorway for such an invitation and not just hovering uneasily. He steps into the bright glow of the kitchen. He takes off his hat without intending to be particularly deferential, but Daniel dips his chin and raises his eyebrows at the gesture.

After a moment more, Daniel tosses the dishcloth to one side and crosses his arms.

Rorschach realizes that he's waiting for something. He tries to recall the words he had settled on; the careful phrasing he had constructed for this purpose. The words refuse to come, so instead he tries to say _apologies, Daniel,_ or _sorry, I was wrong_ , or even _forgive me._

When he opens his mouth, what comes out, stilted and hoarse and not what he means at all, is: "Let me touch you."

Ruined. He is ruined. He is ruinous.

Rorschach's gut instinct is to turn tail and run, but his instinct is what got him into this situation in the first place. He doesn't like second-guessing himself. Left unchecked, it is a habit that will get him killed.

He looks at Daniel and tries to gauge how things will play out if he stays. He can't let this turn into something it's not.

"Well," Daniel says. "That's a start, I guess."

His nonchalance is reassuring. The color touching his face, less so. His body language relaxes and he unfolds his arms to lean back against the counter-top. There's dampness on his shirt and slacks: a dark, arcing spatter of dish soap.

Rorschach tightens his grip on the the brim of his hat. He could say something terrible, and Daniel would ask him to leave and then they would never see each other again. It could be that easy.

He does not deserve for it to be that easy. He's shaking. It makes him feel sick and weak.

"Sorry," he blurts. "Daniel. My behavior."

He rarely has this much trouble expressing himself under pressure. His incisiveness, so often a weapon, has betrayed him, turned on him and left nothing but inadequate, disjointed fragments. Humiliating.

"Yeah," Daniel says. He pushes off from the counter, comes to stand in front of Rorschach. "You were out of line."

Rorschach doesn't like it when Daniel stands this close. He has to tilt his face up to look at him.

He swallows.

"I was," he says, presenting himself with careful humility, "very bad. Should be punished."

Daniel blinks at him, brow furrowed in confusion. "Whoa, whoa. Okay, wait. What's going on here?"

It should be obvious. Rorschach ducks his head to the side, then looks back at Daniel and waits for him to understand.

"I just wanted an apology, man. I'm not gonna—" Daniel sighs, takes off his glasses. He frowns, paused midway through cleaning them on his sleeve. "What do you mean? What do you—what are you expecting me to do?"

It should be obvious.

"Let me," Rorschach says. "Please."

"Let you?" Daniel pushes his glasses back on. "So you can—oh. _Oh_ , I _see_."

The small spark of relief at knowing Daniel has understood is immediately snuffed out by the expression on his face. His soft edges melt away when he is angry, and his eyes sharpen and cut. It's a rare transformation, and dangerous.

"So, let me get this straight: you're _not_ attracted to me, and you think I'm some kind of pervert for being attracted to _you_ , but you're just fine with wanting to—"

He gestures, vague and abrupt. There's nothing obscene in it, but Rorschach's skin shudders regardless.

"— _that's_ just fine, because it's a goddamn _punishment_ for you. Is that it? Am I—did I get that right? You want to use me as some kind of, of. You want to use me to _hurt yourself_?"

"No," he says, low and quiet. Maybe it's a lie, but he's suddenly less sure of what it is he's asking for. Daniel's distress wasn't anticipated. He has misjudged this.

Rorschach becomes aware that he is hard. He doesn't remember it happening.

"No," he says again, and he's almost sure it's not a lie. He doesn't mean to raise his voice, but it's happened. He can feel his control slipping, and he hates the way it makes his head rush and his tongue loose. "Not _fine_ with it, Daniel. It's not _fine_. Do you think I want to feel like—"

Stupid. Stupid thing to say. Hot blood will bring him to his knees.

"Like what?" Daniel asks. "God, how _do_ you feel? Because I have no idea what the hell is going on in your head, I really don't."

Like he wants to claw and bite and be bitten and kicked at the intensity of it all, mark it with violence. Like it won't be enough until Daniel has raised blood to the surface, dark on every inch of his skin. Like he wants to climb inside of Daniel and pull him in on himself, smother them both. He's fallen victim to lust, enthralled by its worst excesses; it's a freeway wreck he can't look away from. He deserves every second of this torment.

He can feel his heart beating in his throat and in his ears and between his legs. It's suffocating, claustrophobic. He says nothing.

Daniel sighs. "Sit down."

Rorschach does.

He stays at the table while Daniel makes coffee with unnecessary vigor, spoon battering inside the ceramic mugs. Daniel slings one down in front of him, sloshing some of the drink onto the tablecloth.

The percolator gurgles. The fridge hums. Rorschach drinks his coffee and studies the spill as it diffuses into the weave of the fabric.

"Let's start over," Daniel says.

As though it is that easy. Rorschach nods anyway.

Things go quiet again for a while, then he realizes he is expected to start. He takes a quick, shallow breath. At length the truth will out.

"I lied," he says, and it's as much a confession to himself as anything else. "I do. I am. To you."

He is attracted to a man. To Daniel. He wonders if Daniel has tricked him somehow, then wonders if this is some breed of Stockholm Syndrome, or if situational homosexuality applies.

He wonders if this is something he inherited, whorish genetic traits that never should have been spread.

He wishes for instant death.

Like most things he wishes for, it is denied him.

Daniel looks at him, evaluating the situation like it's a crime scene. His elbows are propped on the table, emptied mug pressed between his palms. "And you don't know how to deal with it."

"Know to hate it." Rorschach takes shallow satisfaction in how venomous he sounds.

"And look where that's gotten us." Daniel breaks off into a sigh. He puts his mug down and drags his hands over his face. "I'm really tired of all this."

There is a finality to Daniel's words, a decision made. Dread pools like blood in the back of Rorschach's throat; he swallows it down.

"Ask me," Daniel says.

Rorschach drops his gaze to the table. His chest is tight and fluttering. He feels too big for his skin, like he's going to split open.

"If you can do this. If you want to do this, without the blame, without punishing yourself, or me. Without it being situational gratification, or... Jesus, just so this isn't all on me, because I can't handle that, man. I mean, I know I do most of the work here—" He tips a finger back and forth between them. "—but that doesn't mean I want to be your fall guy whenever you can't deal. I don't want your guilt. I don't want that. I deserve better than that."

Rorschach needs to go. Needs to go, _now_ , before Daniel can talk about deserving, what he deserves, what Kovacs deserves. That's not something that should be dissected; not like this, with all his soft innards spilled out and exposed.

His chair screeches over the tile, almost topples.

He fumbles his hat; he leaves it because Daniel is trying to hold his arm, saying, "wait, wait," but he can't wait, he has to get out, has to go.

The basement air is cool, his breathing echoes, his footfalls. Daniel's footfalls echo behind him. He doesn't remember stopping, but Daniel's hands are resting on his upper arms and that's supposed to be safe, always used to be, but now they are turning him around.

-

He can't look at Daniel right now, so he halts the proceedings by sitting down.

Even pushing his mask up, he can't seem to get enough air. The concrete step is damp and hard under his rear, cold seeping through the fabric of his pants. He's not certain what he's been trying to do, what his end goal is here, if he even has one. He just knows that it's absurdly difficult.

"Tried," he croaks.

"I know." Daniel's voice has turned rough, like he has a cold. There's a shuffling sound as he sits a couple of steps behind Rorschach, slings his arms around his shoulders; not in an embrace so much as just holding him there. He tolerates it. "I know, I know it's difficult but it's important, buddy. It really is."

Rorschach takes in a breath, and lets it out again in careful measures.

"You know I want to say yes. I could just say yes and let you. You don't know how easy it would be, how much I want you even when I'm _so goddamn pissed_ at you." Daniel's hand flattens against his chest, pats lightly in emphasis, makes him tense. "But you would hate yourself and then hate me for letting you, and it would... you would be right to. It would be fucked up. I can't—I don't want things to end up like that."

There's a lot of truth there, but Rorschach doesn't know what to do with it.

"Too sentimental, Daniel," he says. He isn't sure if that's appropriate or not, doesn't even mean it, really, though part of him hopes that Daniel will be offended by it and tell him leave. It comes out sounding perfectly wretched.

Daniel tightens his grip, holds him while he shudders. "Yeah," he murmurs, too close to Rorschach's ear. "I know. I know. Always too soft."

They fall silent for a while and Rorschach thinks of the myriad ways this could go wrong, lays out the ways things have already gone wrong and have left their partnership in this precarious state.

He wonders what Daniel wants from this instead of focusing what he wants from Daniel, and feels his skin prickle. It's a puzzle piece he hadn't even known was missing, but he's not sure he wants to slot it into place; not yet. Even now, he can't comprehend the finished picture.

Daniel shifts. "So, uh," he says, awkward. "We could move somewhere warmer. I don't know about you, but my ass is numb."

Despite knowing there was no invitation implicit—not that kind, not intentionally—the idea of _warm_ and _Daniel_ leaves him paralyzed, focused on chasing away tactile imagery and the sensory awareness of Daniel's broad hands on him.

"Or, it's okay," Daniel says quickly. "We can stay here, or if you—I mean, if you want to go..."

Rorschach gets to his feet slowly, not moving Daniel's arms but letting them slide from around him, shedding the weight from his shoulders. He would do well to leave now, before the equilibrium he has accidentally struck unbalances again.

Daniel stays sitting, looks up at him when he turns.

"Going to go now," Rorschach informs him. Daniel is pale and insecurity is gnawing at his features, but Rorschach is not one for reassurances, nor for making promises he may be unable to deliver on.

-

He's left his hat behind, and for some reason Dan finds that a comfort. It's not the most distinctive part of his uniform, but it's still a striking part of his silhouette. Whether it has fetishistic importance, Dan doesn't know. He probably has a spare.

He leaves it on the kitchen table; it sits there for three days and then vanishes.

-

It's nine days before he catches sight of a familiar figure, striding along the other side of a rotting wooden fence, glimpsed in stop-motion between the slats and then subsumed by a slab of city shadow.

And again, retreating from the edge of a rooftop to just outside his line of sight.

He's letting himself be seen, fleeting revelations, and it sets Dan's heart hammering against his ribs. It's like when an opponent cuts and runs before things come to blows; a heady, nauseous adrenaline rush that leaves him twitchy without anywhere to direct it.

It feeds into the uncertainty that has been plaguing him, leaving him a nervous ball of energy.

Dan doesn't know if Rorschach will mislead him to get what he wants out of this. Dan always through that he was unforgivingly truthful, but apparently he is not above an outright lie when it comes to something like this. Can he believe Rorschach if he says that he wants this thing? God help them both if he tells Dan what he wants to hear. He doesn't know if he could turn him down, not a second time.

And he should feel guilty about that, deeply ashamed for being willing to enable his friend's self-destructive behavior for his own selfishness. But he doesn't, at least not as much as he should. He feels guilty for not feeling guilty, though. It's fucked up. Maybe he got damaged too, somewhere along the line.

They'll make a hell of a pair.

Later, he holds the warehouse door open and says, "Are you coming?" into the night. He stands there for a handful of long minutes, deaf and blind as blood swims in his head, and then Rorschach drifts past him into the dank building. He hauls open the maintenance hatch and vanishes into the access shaft without a word.

Dan follows ten or so yards behind, watching as Rorschach walks through the conical shafts of the tunnel lights. Shadows slips over him like silk, the detail of his figure pulled into sharp contrast and then plunged back into darkness in slow, hypnotic sequence.

-

Daniel pulls his goggles away, lets them hang around his neck. The way he is moving reminds Rorschach of someone approaching a strange dog, not sure if it will attack or roll over. Slow and cautious. No sudden movements.

"Not going to bite," he says. "Or bolt. Came to talk."

Daniel looks so suddenly and massively relieved that Rorschach has to catch his tongue between his teeth and bear down.

The time spent alone hasn't cleared his head as he had hoped; if anything, it's made things worse. Each watery dawn has found him curled around his own fist, pressing bruises into the inside his thighs and gritting his teeth against the hollow aftermath. His jaw aches.

"I'm really glad," Daniel says. He heaves out a quick sigh. "I was starting to think that maybe you—uh. Okay, come on up."

Daniel stops to change out of his uniform on the way to the kitchen. He is careful to keep his back to Rorschach, maintaining a level of modesty that he never concerned himself with before. So, things are different already, small gestures of trust now closely guarded. Even if it impacts Rorschach like a fist to the gut, all he can do is stand there in despair and watch the ripple of muscle in Daniel's back and shoulders as he pulls his uniform off over his head.

He turns and takes the steps up to the kitchen before Daniel can unfasten his belt.

-

Rorschach stands in Daniel's kitchen and makes himself very still. It works well out in the streets, but there are no shadows to hide in here, no dark corners to melt into and vanish away. He tries anyway, stoic between bright fluorescents and bright tile, and Daniel still takes a fraction of a second longer than he should have to note him.

"So, okay," Daniel says, fastening the last few buttons of his shirt. He's left the neck unbuttoned too wide; Rorschach can see the hard ridge of his clavicle, mottled with old bruising. He imagines putting his mouth there, and marvels at how the idea repels him and attracts him in equal measure, two forces that resolve to leave him exactly as he stands.

"You wanted to talk?" Daniel says. His body language is slack, and Rorschach notices how tired he looks.

He licks his lips and asks, "How are you keeping."

Daniel looks at him, laughs, then stops. Rubs at his eyebrow with his thumb. "Oh," he says. "You're serious."

"No," Rorschach says. "I can see how you are."

"You know, perfunctory courtesy doesn't really work if you follow up with something like that." There's no bite to his words, just the indifference of someone who doesn't really care, stating the obvious purely for something to say.

Rorschach flexes his fingers, feels the glove leather pull tight against the back of his hands and the ridges of serged stitching press into his skin. He suddenly has nothing to say, either.

Daniel watches, pushes out a short breath. "Well, if you're just gonna clam up, I..." he says, stepping closer.

Rorschach tilts his head, questioning.

"I think we should talk about... well. You know where my boundaries are. I want to know what yours are. Uh, with some specificity beyond 'touch me and die'."

"That's not—" Rorschach begins, then reconsiders. It's not so surprising that Daniel would understand his reactions to mean that, because that's exactly how they are. "Ehn."

"I know you came here just to talk and I'm sorry, I know that I'm... but I'm going crazy here man, I want to know, can I—" Daniel reaches out, presses tentative fingertips to the corner of Rorschach's jaw, below his ear. He speaks in a rush, more breath than words. "Is it okay if I touch you? Now?"

He's not sure what it is about the plaintive twist to Daniel's mouth or the furrow of his forehead, but Rorschach says nothing, doesn't move away. Maybe if he pities Daniel it will make this easier. He jerks his head in a nod.

"God," Daniel mutters, and hooks his thumb into the V at the neck of Rorschach's trench, drags it down and pries the first button open. "This has to work both ways, you know," he says, low enough that it's almost like he's talking to himself. "Reciprocity. It's... that's how it should..."

Rorschach's belt comes away, another button and his trench is open. Daniel places his hands against the panels of Rorschach's suit jacket, against his lower stomach. They're shaking, perhaps with lust, though Rorschach thinks it could just as easily be fear. His own hands would shake the same way if they weren't clenched tight around the edge of the table.

"God," Daniel says again.

"Why do you pray."

"I don't know." Dan half-laughs, a sour, aborted noise, then leans in briefly to rest his forehead against Rorschach's shoulder. "It feels like the right thing to do."

"Stop it."

"Easier said than done. Listen, I—" He takes a breath, short and bracing, then lets it out again on a stream of words. "Screw it. I want to... I want you in my. In my mouth."

For a second, Rorschach doesn't understand. Then he does, with gruesome clarity. He tries to feel sorry for Daniel, that he would want such a thing, but all he feels is impatience and dread.

The noise he makes is far too accepting.

Daniel gets to his knees, slow and cautious like he expects Rorschach to haul him back up onto his feet again. Rorschach considers it but decides to let him stay down, because he knows that Daniel wants to fix this. He trusts him to know the right way to do it, and he'll tolerate his methods, even if he feels ashamed enough for both of them.

He imagines that Daniel has dreamed about doing this. He wonders if Daniel thinks of a black and white face when he spins his sordid little fantasy, or if any faceless man will do. A wave of revulsion shudders through him; Daniel misinterprets it, of course. He's talking, low and steady, assurances and reassurances folded around humiliating eagerness. It may as well be so much filth, the way it makes Rorschach's stomach lurch.

"Stop talking," he says. "Stop."

Daniel pulls down the fly of Rorschach's pants; it makes a noise like a zip tie pulled tight. "Well, there's one way you—" he says, then obviously thinks better of it.

Rorschach knows exactly what he was going to say, and hates him a little for his flippancy.

He's mostly soft when Daniel pulls him out of his underwear. Daniel's hands feel cool and firm, and it's unexpected enough that it sends heat swelling through him. Rorschach forces himself to look down. Daniel looks back up, small crease pulling at his brow.

His own penis reminds him of the tongue of a waterlogged corpse, protruding, bloated and discolored. Daniel takes a breath and then sucks the head into his mouth. Rorschach gags softly.

Daniel closes his eyes and draws on the flesh between his lips, and there's nothing Rorschach can do about it. He hardens with every inward slip and outward slide until it feels like he could split. The pressure is intolerable.

He's learned that there are few ways to escape when he's like this, pushed too far and too quickly with no way to safely back down: he can either disassociate from the sensation, or succumb to it.

Succumbing is quicker, easier, worst.

He twists his fingers into Daniel's hair, ruts deeper into his mouth and holds himself there in the sopping heat. He can feel Daniel's mouth move around him, his tongue, the muscles in his throat contracting. He's wet and warm and full of teeth and it's nearly enough but he's not free yet.

Daniel makes a frantic noise and breath gusts from his nose, but it takes his fist slammed against Rorschach's thigh and his other hand trying to pull his hair free before Rorschach realizes what he needs, and relents. Daniel is red-faced and coughing hoarsely, glasses gone, eyes watering.

He gasps Rorschach's name, his hands wipe at his eyes and he knows that it's wrong but it's too late; the first crippling wave has him in its grip. Rorschach's breath rasps in his throat and his body seizes; his orgasm is like a stone tossed into the depths, dark ripples left in its wake.

He clutches at himself in a futile attempt at control, but he catches Daniel across his cheek and soils the collar of his shirt. His knees buckle and he sinks down onto the linoleum.

"Jesus Christ," Daniel croaks. He sound shaky and maybe a little scared. He wipes at his cheek, then looks at his fingers, at the evidence strung between them, and closes his eyes. He touches his fingers to his lips, and Rorschach's chest clenches like a fist. He doesn't know if he's disgusted or not. He should be.

What he does know is this: he doesn't feel any different having endured the act. The same void rests in his heart and in his head.

"This was a mistake," he says.

Daniel wipes his hand on his shirt, considering. Then he leans over to tuck Rorschach back into his pinstripes with more tenderness than he has any right to receive, and says, "Yeah, probably."

Somehow, such easy agreement is more cutting than anything a senseless argument could bring.

"I figured it would be," Daniel continues, casting about for his glasses. He doesn't put them on, just holds them a little way from his face. "It would be pretty stupid of me to think otherwise. But you can't... _not_ do something because you're afraid of making a mistake now and then, right? And when you make a mistake, even a deliberate—especially a deliberate one, you just pick yourself up, say sorry and mean it. You learn from it and keep going, right?

"I mean, you don't just give up. Not if it's something you really. Really want." He folds his glasses, reaches up and behind to slide them onto the tabletop, and laughs softly. "God, listen to me, lecturing _you_ on the merits of persistence."

Rorschach doesn't bother processing his babble; he always talks too much when he's in an uncomfortable situation, like he needs to articulate every though that passes through his head. Rorschach looks at him. Daniel looks back; he is hopeful, expectant.

"I don't want to do that again," Rorschach says. His head is still pounding, hot blood rushing in his ears. He grasps the back of Daniel's neck and presses their foreheads together, tries to make it sound as though he believe his own words. " _Ever again_."

"Okay, whoa," Daniel says. "Yeah, it was kinda... kinda intense. But, I think we—"

Rorschach tightens his fingers before he can complete the thought. "Any of it," he says, from between clenched teeth. "Any of this."

Daniel's mouth is close to his own. It's wet where he's licked his lips, wet where Rorschach's... where he...

"Getting some mixed signals here," Daniel murmurs.

Rorschach bites at Daniel's mouth, pulls his lower lip through mask-blunted teeth as though he can scrape him clean again. Daniel takes it and somehow twists it, turns it into something gentle in a way that's so typical, so infuriating of him.

When Daniel reaches up to cup Rorschach's face, there's no mistaking that it's a kiss.

-

It feels like Rorschach is shaking himself to pieces against Dan's mouth. That would be scary in and of itself, but he doesn't even seem to realize that he's doing it. When Dan eases him back, his breathing is light and quick, and his pulse trips rapidly beneath Dan's fingertips.

He wants to whisper, "hey, steady," and loosen Rorschach's scarf, perhaps slip the mask up over his nose so that he can breathe more freely, but at the same time he doesn't want to expose him any more than he already is.

Rorschach rattles out a long breath and shifts under Dan's hands. Dan offers some platitude or other, and if he's not thinking about what he's saying it's because he's scattered, still dazed and obscenely hard from Rorschach... from Rorschach fucking his mouth and then coming on his face, Jesus _Christ_. It might be the most profoundly erotic thing he's experienced—beyond anything even Leslie has to offer—and he doesn't really want to know what that says about him. That he's in desperate need of some therapy, probably.

"You're all right," he hears himself say. "You're okay." He's not sure if he's talking to himself or to Rorschach. The back of his throat feels raw.

Rorschach shudders against him, then removes Dan's hands from his person in slow, deliberate motions that sends Dan's stomach into a series of lurches. He visibly composes himself until it's like nothing has happened, and that's always an unnerving process to watch. Dan's only ever seen him do it out on the streets, in the fallout after a moment of acute mortality—those times when one of them has taken a knife right up to the hilt, or felt a gun pressed behind their ear.

"May I use your bathroom," he says, getting to his feet. He doesn't offer Dan a hand up.

Dan gives him a dumb nod.

Rorschach stalks out of the kitchen, and not long after the boiler chugs to life, pipes rattling in the walls. He's probably just running the hot faucet, but Dan imagines him naked in his shower anyway. All he can taste is the bitter tang of latex; he pushes a hand down his pants and drags himself to a swift, anticlimactic finish.

He waits out the endorphin rush, then stands up to wash his hands in the sink.

While he makes coffee, he considers what he's going to say ( _are we going to be okay; well, it was nice knowing you; please, please, push me over the table and fuck me_ ), but he's still got nothing when Rorschach reappears, buttoned impenetrably and smelling of Dan's soap.

Dan's stomach clenches, and he closes his eyes for a moment. _He said he doesn't want this_ , he reminds himself. And then: _But he lied, before._

"Hey," he says, as quiet and even as he can manage. He leans back against the counter and decides to err on the side of inanity, at least to start with. "Hey, buddy."

Rorschach slides a hand under his mask and shucks it above his nose, higher than Dan's seen it before. His nose is crooked and short, and there's a bruise yellowing across his left cheek, crawling up under the stretched latex. His mouth isn't the rigid line that Dan expected it to be, and it strikes him that Rorschach hasn't managed to compose himself so well after all.

"I'm sorry, man," Dan says, without thinking.

Rorschach makes a noise in the back of his throat, passes his hand across his mouth. "Whatever you say."

Dan shakes his head. "God, you're a real passive-aggressive asshole sometimes, you know?" He's too worn out to be particularly mad at this point. That, and it's not exactly a new thing.

"Which would you prefer."

"Oh man, Rorschach, just shut up." Dan holds out his hand. "Come here."

Rorschach sways forward a step, then pauses. "Daniel," he says.

Dan never realized that his own name could carry such a complicated and disparate wealth of meaning. "It's okay," he says. "I'm sorry. I forgive you. It's gonna be okay."

Dan keeps holding out his hand, and if Rorschach doesn't manage to meet him halfway, then he at least tries. He is angular against Dan's body; his fingers dig into the crook of Dan's arm.

They stand like that for some time. Dan wonders what Rorschach is thinking about, whether he's reassessing the flawed syllogisms that constitute his world-view, or trying to shore them up.

"Punished you in attempt to drive out own weaknesses," he says, eventually. His breath washes against Dan's throat, warm and damp. "Wasn't my intention. Sorry, Daniel."

Dan lets out a long sigh, and relief is like being untied. He lets himself be loose for the first time in days.

"I'll get over it," he says. If his tone is self-depreciating, it's only because he knows he's an idiot for meaning it. And even though he knows picking at wounds rarely helps them heal, sometimes he can't help himself. "It's not a weakness," he adds. "To want these things, I mean. It's just human."

Rorschach only grunts. The more Dan leans against him, the more he pushes back, until they are both propped up like a pair of wounded soldiers in the middle of his kitchen. If Rorschach stepped away suddenly enough, Dan would land in an undignified pile on the linoleum.

"Forgive too easily," Rorschach mutters, shifting to redistribute Dan's center of gravity back onto his own feet.

Dan snorts an almost-laugh, steps back to hold Rorschach at arm's length. "You let me worry about that," he tells him. "And hey, if you don't give me another reason to do so, we should be okay."

"Not a concern," Rorschach says, and ducks his head, pulls the mask back into place. Ink blurs from his mouth like smoldering ash, and he shudders from toe to crown. "Meant what I said. Don't want to do that again."

"That's... not really what _I_ meant, but." Dan makes a helpless gesture, shoulders slumping. He feels suddenly and completely sick of everything. Part of him wants to fly into a ridiculous childish tantrum: _you started it_ , _you started it_. The rest of him is just plain ready to cry with frustration.

But he is Rorschach's friend. Hell, he's sure he's Rorschach's _only_ friend. And Rorschach calls Dan by his real name, sits in his kitchen and humors him, lets Dan feed him and fuss over him and stitch him up when he's bleeding the wrong side of badly.

That always used to be precious enough.

"Okay," Dan says, and tries not to choke on it. "Whatever you need, man."

"Patrol tomorrow," Rorschach says, paused at the basement door. His voice is designed for threats and for violence; gentleness doesn't sit easily on his tongue. To Dan, it sounds a little like pain. "You are more than I deserve, sometimes."

And like so many times before, he is gone.

— [–](http://steals-thyme.livejournal.com/41988.html) —


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